Silent Knight

by Tori Phillips

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Guy grinned. Personally, he was glad she was so utterly feminine. Then he chided himself. He must not regard Celeste as a seductive, beautiful, desirable, spirited woman, but only as a poor soul to save. What a barrow of rubbish! his conscience sneered.

  Celeste placed her hand over his. “Brother Guy, I must make a confession to you.”

  Guy’s stomach clenched with a sudden spasm of fear and guilt. For two months, he had hoped to avoid this predicament. Now he must tell her that he did not have the authority to forgive her sins—whatever they could possibly be. He started to fumble for his slate and chalk, but her hands stayed him.

  “Fret not, good Brother. Do you think I could tell to you all my evil deeds? Oh, la, la! I should be a month of Sundays at it, and much ashamed to boot. Non, my sins I will confess to someone who knows me not. But to you, I must tell a secret of my heart.”

  She leaned closer to him. He closed his eyes and reveled in her sweet scent of musk roses. “I tell you true, for I know you cannot betray me, or scold me. I do not want to marry either Sir Roger or his son.”

  Guy opened his eyes and looked upon her with a mixture of relief and gladness in his heart. It cheered him to hear it, yet her revelation left a bitter aftertaste.

  “Oui, I knew you would be shocked. Furthermore, I tell you, if a mysterious knight should ride into the lists on my wedding day and challenge for my hand in marriage, I swear I would jump on his horse’s back and ride away with him. Such a man could not be any worse than the pickle barrel I am in now.” She stared into the space over Guy’s head, with a dreamy look on her face. “Perhaps that is the real reason I wish for a tournament. I wish for a handsome knight to save me.”

  She pondered the idea for a moment, then gave herself a little shake. “Ma foi! What am I saying? I am no longer a silly child who believes in magic wishes. Do not think me evil, Brother Guy. These are only my dreams of fancy, mere toys of the mind.” She rubbed her temple again. “Pray, excuse me, good Brother. I have a headache and must rest before dinner.”

  Celeste stood and shook out her skirts. Guy couldn’t help but admire the way her yellow satin gown displayed her tiny waist to such an advantage. ’Sdeath! His handspan would more than encompass her. Guy’s palms itched to hold her. Instead, he stood aside to let her pass. As she did so, she spoke to him over her shoulder.

  “Do you think Sir Roger will want to kiss me at every meal?”

  I would do so, my heart.

  Without expecting any reaction from him, she continued. “If that becomes his habit, I need to get more herbs for headaches. Adieu, Brother.” She slowly climbed the steps to the upper gallery.

  Guy watched her departure until the last wisp of her golden buttercup train disappeared around the bend of the stairs. With the firm intention of spending the rest of the day prostrate on the chapel’s icy floor, he spun around and raced down the courtyard staircase. Surely God, in his divine wisdom and justice, would not let this ill-conceived marriage take place. If Guy prayed hard enough, fasted enough, subjected himself to enough physical torment, perhaps his prayers for Celeste’s deliverance might be answered. Didn’t Father Jocelyn say, time and again, that the good Lord hears all petitions? Hears, yes, but answers — ?

  In the center of the courtyard, Gaston was instructing Pierre and Émile in a bit of swordplay. Pip sat nearby on an upright keg and watched the lesson with open admiration.

  “Zounds! Go creep back into the pond, you turtle!” Gaston railed at the perspiring Pierre, who was obviously getting the worst part of the exercise. “Your skill is as thick as dried Dijon mustard! Parry, parry, lackwit!”

  Pulling his hood lower, Guy hid his grin. Gaston sounded much like his own master-of-arms in days gone by.

  Gaston grabbed the sword out of Pierre’s hand, then turned to face Emile. “Observe, mule-head!” Gaston moved with a speed that belied both his years and the girth of his waist. “Parry left, parry right, then attack, attack, attack, lunge, like so! Pah! You will never graduate from the stable loft!” Spying the monk, Gaston berated his winded wagoneer even louder.

  “Mark you, Pierre! Even the good priest laughs at you. I think, perhaps, even you can best our Pierre with a sword, eh, Brother Guy?”

  Without further preamble, Gaston lofted the naked blade into the air toward the monk. Acting on pure instinct, Guy extended his right hand and closed his fingers around the haft. The weight of the weapon felt at home in his grip.

  Gaston chuckled. “Think you can pull your wool robe over my eyes, dissembling monk? Ha! I knew I spied a sword arm ’neath your sleeve. Come, go a round with Émile.”

  Reminding himself that he had sworn off his former warlike pastimes, Guy pushed the temptation aside. Peace must rule his life now. He held the sword out to Gaston, hilt first. Gaston stuck out his lower lip and glowered at Guy.

  “You white-livered worm! Your reluctance does not sit well in my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up!” Gaston snatched Émile’s blade from his hand, then waggled it at Guy. “I think you a coward, and by this hand will I verify it.”

  Guy tightened his grip around the sword. How dare this garlic-mouthed, snail-munching Frenchman call him a coward! Guy knew he could make mincemeat of the old soldier in three strokes. A hot, angry flush spread over his face.

  Gaston danced lightly on the balls of his feet. “What say you, toad? Craven jackdaw? Think you so little of your honor? Perhaps you should retire to a nunnery! What say you, cowl-covered knave?”

  Guy expelled short, angry bursts of air from his lungs as he listened to Gaston’s taunts. Émile, Pip and Pierre gawked with amazement as Gaston launched into yet more invective. What had gotten into the old goat? Guy always considered Gaston the most sensible of Celeste’s men. In his headstrong youth, Guy would have answered such rude comments with his blade. Even now, red spots whirled before his eyes as Gaston continued to describe Guy’s courage, honor and manly parts in the lowest possible terms. The sword shook in Guy’s grip.

  Suddenly Gaston attacked. Guy parried the thrust and returned in kind. His long robe impeded his footwork. Without caring who might happen to be watching, Guy dropped back his hood and hoisted his robe with one hand, baring his legs to the biting wind. Gaston attacked again, forcing Guy to defend himself with more vigor than the monk intended. For several minutes the two fought in silence, save for occasional grunts from Gaston. Seizing an unguarded moment, Guy sent Gaston’s sword flying toward the stable refuse heap.

  Gaston threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. A wide grin split his features. “Peace, peace, good Brother! I did but test your mettle.” He mopped his brow with his sleeve. “By the Book, I have not had such good exercise in over a year!” He grew more serious as Guy lowered his blade.

  Sweet Jesu! What had Guy done just now? Why had he allowed Gaston to goad him into a bout of arms? A plague on it! Guy had forgotten his vows, forgotten the rule of his order, forgotten everything save the exhilarating clash and clang of tempered steel. Beads of sweat mixed with the dust rolling into his eyes as Guy took in deep drafts of the cold air. Hang it all! He was woefully out of shape!

  “You, you and you!” Gaston pointed to his three pupils in turn. “The lesson is over for the day. Go give the horses some exercise! Be off with you!” He retrieved the sword from Guy’s limp hand, then pulled him by the sleeve behind the stable. “I crave a word or two with you.”

  Guy drew his hood over his head again and hoped no one had recognized him for a Cavendish. Wondering what Gaston was up to, Guy followed the old soldier and accepted a dipper of cold water from the bucket by the well.

  “You fight with skill.” As Gaston complimented him, he took Guy’s right wrist and pulled up his sleeve. “Ha! As I thought. This is the arm of a knight, not a cleric. So tell me, as best you can, why is a knight hiding in a monk’s robe, eh?”

  Guy started to turn away, but Gaston held fast to him. “Not this time, Brother Guy. You can pra
y later. Answer me first, why have you taken holy orders?”

  I’m not a real priest and I am not hiding. To Gaston, he presented a impassive face. Guy’s motives for joining the Franciscans were none of the old man’s business.

  “Think I am blind? Ha!” Gaston poured a dipperful of water over his head, then shook the drops off, like a large shaggy dog. “Think I do not see what has happened to you?”

  In the shadowed protection of his hood, Guy regarded Gaston intently. What had happened to him? Guy folded his arms over his chest, hugging himself. Now that he had cooled down from his brief engagement, the wind that blew around the courtyard felt doubly cold.

  Gaston chuckled. “I’ll tender my point, before your privates freeze in this shrill-gorged weather. My lady deserves better than an old windbag for a husband. Oui, do not look so surprised that I know this, my friend. Our young Peep has long ears and a ready tongue. Lady Celeste is a jewel, agreed? Her father has sent a precious rose to a man who can smell nothing but money. It is a crime that she be left to rot in this miserable dungheap!” Gaston spat in the direction of the central keep.

  Guy shifted uneasily. He curled his toes under his sandal straps, but found no warmth there. Gaston cocked his head, then tapped the side of his large nose with his finger and nodded.

  “The long and short of it is this. My lady is full in love with you.”

  Guy stepped back and shook his head. It wasn’t possible! It could not be! Gaston grinned, then winked his eye.

  “You look thunderstruck, my fine fellow. Ah! That often is the case with love. Non! Stop shaking your head and unstop your ears. I have known Lady Celeste since the cradle. Indeed, it was I who helped her take her first steps and taught her how to ride a horse and climb trees. Not that climbing trees is a necessary part of a young lady’s education, but it is a good thing to know if you wish to pluck the sweetest pear from the limb. Pay some attention, dolt-head!” He punched Guy on the shoulder.

  Guy’s agitated mind whirled. Gaston said Celeste loved him. Nay, it was too good to be true! Surely Gaston mistook. It was Guy who loved the lady.

  Gaston continued, “And I spy the same love-light in your eyes. Fah! Do not think you have hidden it behind that sanctimonious mask of yours. The question is this—what will you do about it, eh? Tell me, are you a true priest?” Gaston narrowed his eyes at Guy.

  Guy considered the question. There was no point in lying to the man, and lying was a sin. Slowly, Guy shook his head.

  “Sacrebleu! I thought as much, since I never saw you offer the holy mass yourself. Are you a real monk? Have you taken your final vows?”

  Again Guy shook his head. Why was his blood pounding in his ears? Why did Gaston’s simple questions leave him feeling so uneasy?

  “Très bien.” Gaston licked his lips, like a satisfied cat after a stolen bowl of cream. “Then I tell you this truth in plain French, so you do not mistake my meaning. The lady loves you. You love the lady. If you do not use the good sense that God gave you now, I think you should start running out that gate this minute and not stop until you are back in your safe little hole at the monastery. Oui! There you can hide your face—the face of an angel, my lady says—and pretend you don’t care a whit about what happens to her here.”

  Gaston turned toward the main staircase. “I leave it to you, middling monk. You have four weeks to do right by my little one who loves you with all her heart,” Gaston tossed over his shoulder. He paused at the base of the stairs. A blood-freezing smile broke across his weathered face.

  “But if you don’t make the right decision, silent knight, I will cut out your gizzard and feed it to the dogs for a wedding breakfast.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When Guy rose from his knees in the dark, frigid chapel, he did so with a glad heart and a wide grin. For the first time in months, he ended his prayers with sincere thanks to the Almighty above. He strode out through the low arched doorway with a light spring to his step. Finally he knew what he wanted to do with his life—and how to go about it. Four weeks didn’t give him much time to prepare, but as Father Jocelyn used to tell the novices, God helped those who helped themselves.

  Silently begging a piece of writing paper and some ink from the castle chaplain, who was too sleepy to ask questions, Guy sat down under one of the narrow lancet windows and by moonlight scratched out a hasty letter to his brother, Brandon. The quill’s frayed tip caused the ink to spatter and blot. When he had finished, Guy reread his missive. There was no high praise for either the spelling or the penmanship, but Brandon would understand his request. Guy judged the time to be near ten o’clock when he stole into the stable and gently shook Pip, who slept in the loft with the French men-at-arms. Ormond did not overextend his hospitality when it came to foreign-speaking temporary retainers.

  “God’s mercy!” Pip squeaked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Brother Guy, you gave me the fright o’ me life, to be sure! Methought I had died and ’twas the angel Gabriel come to fetch me home to heaven.” The boy yawned, then shook himself all over, like a puppy come in from a downpour. “What’s your pleasure?”

  Guy put his finger to his lips, then nodded his head toward the sleeping Pierre. The moon’s slanting beams reflected Pip’s snaggle-toothed grin of understanding. Together the tall monk and the slim boy descended the ladder into the stable below.

  “Have ye a secret now?” Pip whispered, wriggling with anticipation.

  Guy returned his infectious grin. He remembered from his own boyhood the lure of midnight mischief. He nodded again, his answer increasing the boy’s excitement. Knowing that Pip could not read, Guy proceeded to mime his request. It would have been easier to tell Gaston, but Guy wasn’t sure Brandon would answer his summons, and Guy didn’t want to get Gaston’s hopes too high.

  “Which horse do ye want me to take?” Pip licked his lips as he eyed Gaston’s black stallion, in his stall.

  Guy almost chuckled aloud. There would be hell to pay if he saddled the beast for Pip. Gaston would probably skin both of them alive, without so much as a by-your-leave. Besides, Black Devil was far too powerful for a lightweight novice rider like Pip to handle. Guy moved into the stall that held Pierre’s docile mare. Next to her, Daisy snorted and flattened her ears. Guy took an extra moment to rub the disagreeable donkey’s neck. He felt a good deal more charitable toward her, now that he had settled his future. Guy slipped the bridle bit into the mare’s mouth, then backed her out of the stall. Pip, his eyes sparkling with delight, watched as Guy cinched up the girth of Pierre’s saddle.

  Together they led the patient horse out of the stables, around the storehouses and behind the blacksmith’s, to the low postern gate in the wall.

  “Yer blessing, Father?” asked Nicholas, one of the younger guards, who shivered at his lonely post.

  Guy hesitated only a fraction of a second before making the sign of the cross over the bowed, uncovered head. Then he motioned to the guard to unlatch the gate.

  “I’d earn a beatin’ for sure, but seein’ ’tis only ye and the lad, I’ll do it, Father. Mind the path, ’tis steep past the gate till ye reach the road. ’Tis a fair moon tonight, so ye’ll ne’er have trouble findin’ it.” He unbolted the gate. “Me-thinks ’tis a wee bit late fer a ride,” the guardsman remarked as he watched Guy lead the mare out.

  “Aye, but Brother Guy has a message I am to deliver,” Pip confided importantly. Guy snatched the youngster by the collar of his shirt before he could elaborate any further.

  “Godspeed,” Nicholas responded. “An’ stay in the middle o’ the road. ’Tis far ye ride?”

  “Nay!” Pip gasped as Guy dragged him down the incline. “D’ye think I’d miss breaking me fast in the morning?”

  The guard chuckled in reply.

  Once they had reached the roadbed, Guy took out his slate and drew a makeshift map. Now all business, Pip followed the unspoken directions with a serious mien.

  “Aye, Brother, I follow the road...”


  Guy held up four fingers.

  “Four miles till I come to a fork. I take the left-hand road and ride until I reach...”

  Guy spread his hands wide, to indicate large, then pointed to Snape’s brooding keep.

  “I reach a great castle.”

  Guy nodded, then handed the boy the unsealed letter. On the outside he had written Brandon.

  “I give this to the porter to give to the person what’s written on this paper. D’ye want me to wait?”

  Guy nodded again. Brandon would probably need help carrying all the things Guy needed.

  “D’ye think they might feed me there?” Pip asked with a hopeful expression.

  Pointing to the name, Guy nodded. Of all people, Brandon would appreciate a growing boy’s appetite.

  “Then to it, say I!” Pip threw himself into the borrowed saddle, then gathered the reins in his small hands. “Will ye bless me, Father?”

  Willingly, and may your guardian angel ride tightly on your shoulder. Guy traced another cross in the air before Pip and the mare.

  Chirruping low to the horse, Pip flicked her rump with his reins, and they took off at a brisk trot. Standing in the roadway, Guy watched his young messenger until the horse and his rider disappeared over the rise. The countryside between Snape and Wolf Hall was dotted with farmer’s cottages. Pip was close enough to civilization not to get into trouble. Guy sent a swift prayer to heaven for the boy’s safety.

  With a contented spirit, Guy climbed the narrow stairs to his small, sparse room by the chapel. Noontime should bring his answer—and Brandon, he hoped. Guy fell onto his straw-filled pallet. Sleep softly overtook him.

  Brandon reread the smeared letter in his hand, then cocked one brow at the yawning stripling who hunched over a plate of cold meat and cheese in Brandon’s quarters, high in the east tower of Wolf Hall.